Like Hadiya, their children became symbols of Chicago's rampant violence

For families of slain youths, grief is endless

Annette Nance-Holt, holding a photo of her son, Blair, became an activist after he was fatally shot on a CTA bus on the South Side. (Abel Uribe, Chicago Tribune)

Their children became symbols of Chicago's street violence.

But the shootings didn't stop.

Annette Nance-Holt, whose son Blair was killed in 2007, calls this group of parents who have lost children to violence "the unfortunate club."

Last week, Nathaniel Pendleton and Cleopatra Cowley-Pendleton joined that group when their 15-year-old daughter, Hadiya Pendleton, was shot to death on the South Side.

Just a few days earlier, Hadiya had performed as a band majorette during inaugural festivities for President Barack Obama near Washington. Then on Tuesday, about a mile from Obama's home in the Kenwood neighborhood, she was shot in the back as she took shelter from the rain after school.

Hadiya's assailant remains at large, despite a $40,000 reward. Her funeral is next Saturday.

The killing has rallied voices nationwide demanding an end to the violence. But Nance-Holt and other activists fear that despite the outrage, Chicago will come no closer to figuring out how to stop the violence.

After 506 homicides last year, January opened the new year with 42 more. Seven of those 42 victims were age 17 and under.

Although the killings of children capture the public's heart, Nance-Holt and other close relatives know the spotlight eventually moves on — then they're left to find their way, often in what feels like the dark.

Blair Holt

After her son Blair was killed, it took Annette Nance-Holt a year just to move the pile of folded clothes the boy had left stacked on the dryer in their home.

It's been six years since the popular 16-year-old was killed, and his mother still hasn't cleaned out his room. Even with therapy and support, Nance-Holt said there is an emptiness that lingers.

"The public only sees one part. After you bury your child, the people are gone," she said. "As parents, we have hopes and dreams for our children and their future. Then it's all snatched away. You get a call your child is dead. No one is prepared for that."

Blair was riding a CTA bus home from Julian High School on the South Side when someone opened fire. The teenager, who was remembered as friendly and warm, tried to block a friend from being shot and was struck himself. As paramedics were trying to save him, Blair asked them to tell his parents he loved them. Then he died.

Now his parents, Chicago Police Department veteran Cmdr. Ronald Holt and Nance-Holt, work vigorously to keep their son's story alive. Nance-Holt attends rallies and lobbies elected officials. She gives speeches at local high schools. She reaches out to the parents of other slain children.

"It's not just Blair. There are tons of kids I'm fighting for," she said. "I'm broken emotionally, but I have to fight. There was no way I would let a thug or gangbanger kill my child and me be quiet."

Terrell Bosley

The year that her son, Terrell Bosley, was killed, Pamela Montgomery-Bosley tried to commit suicide twice, she said.

She and her husband had done all they could to raise their children in a strict, Christian home, she said. So when Terrell, 18, was gunned down in a church parking lot in 2006 as he helped a friend unload drums from a car, the Roseland woman was beyond devastated.

"I almost lost my mind," she said. "I was upset with God. I couldn't believe God would allow him to be taken."

But even as she grieved, Montgomery-Bosley said she channeled her pain into activism. She became determined to catch Terrell's killer and even offered a cash reward.

"Because Terrell was murdered on church grounds, he became a symbol," she said. "I relate to parents who are facing this 'code of silence.' I think because my case had so much media attention, police rushed; they wanted to catch somebody, but they didn't have enough evidence."

A suspect was charged with Terrell's murder but acquitted.

Terrell's murder is still unsolved, his mother said.

When Montgomery-Bosley learned about Hadiya's shooting death, she went to the Kenwood neighborhood the next day. She found Hadiya's mother and wrapped her arms around her in an embrace.

"Right now, she's in shock. She doesn't even know what's going on. She won't remember me," Montgomery-Bosley said. "This devastates a family. When the lights go off, your whole family is hurting. How can we expect them to live now?"

Tommy Vanden Berk

The art of negotiation is the hallmark of the parent-teen relationship. And in April 1992, when Tom Vanden Berk and his 15-year-old son, Tommy, went back and forth about whether he could attend a party, the father believed he had handled the discussion well.

"He was doing some disc jockeying, and after we talked about it, I decided he could go, so I took him and his buddies," said Vanden Berk, the CEO of UCAN, a social service agency in Chicago.

Vanden Berk accompanied the young men inside the house in Rogers Park and introduced himself to some of the other teens. Everything seemed fine. He then gave his son a curfew of 11:30 p.m. and left.